Hot SEAL, Single Malt (SEALs in Paradise Book 9)
Page 3
"Are you laughing at me? Did Marcus send you?"
In hindsight, Gunner should have recognized the growl in her voice, but damn, the woman was on drugs if she thought... Pain the likes of which he'd avoided his entire life shot through him. Searing lightning bolts flashing behind his eyelids. He dropped his hands to his junk and gasped for air that had been forcibly expelled from his lungs. Ohmygodshedidnotjustkickmeinthefuckingnuts!
"I warned you, asshole! Silas! Call the cops!"
Gunner lifted his head and glared at the woman. Or tried to, fuck he couldn't breathe. Those thoughts about her being beautiful, yeah, they flew out the window. He narrowed his eyes at her and let his displeasure out in a low, dangerous rumble. It was instinct. He saw the instant the pint-sized Bruce Lee recognized her mistake. Her eyes widened the same second she went pale. Gunner pierced her with a glare and moved to stand up. Slowly.
"Look, you asked for it." She held out her hand and backed away from him into the pub. "Silas! Silas!"
Gunner cringed as he lifted his leg and stepped onto the landing, but he did it anyway. "My father raised me to treat a lady right, but you...you aren't a lady, you are a fucking wrecking ball." His voice came out three octaves higher than his normal baritone. He didn't care.
"Gunner?" His old man came out of the office with a phone stuck to his ear and a baseball bat in the other hand.
The woman did that ponytail whip around thing again as she snapped her head towards his old man. "Wait. What? Gunner as in your son who is in the Navy? That Gunner?"
Silas nodded and threw down the bat and hung up the phone. "What the hell happened? Why are you all wet?"
"I'm more concerned about the size-three boot that ruptured my nuts." Gunner was still bent like a question mark, but he managed to glare at the woman. How in the world could he have imagined she was someone he'd like to get to know better?
"What?" Silas moved around the pocket-sized calamity and grabbed his elbow. "You kicked him in the...A.J what possessed you?"
"He laughed at my warning, and he kept coming up the stairs. I thought he was...what was I supposed to do? I didn't know he was your son!" Gunner winced as her voice peaked high enough to call every dog in a four-block radius.
His old man grabbed ahold of him and gave him a hug. The embrace was awkward in his current bent position. "Damn son, let a person know you're coming next time."
"No shit," Gunner groaned. He returned the hug even though he was drenching his father in the process.
His dad gave him a couple solid thuds on the back, cleared his throat and pulled away before he threw a command over his shoulder. "A.J. go get a bag of ice." Gunner watched her spin and sprint down the hallway.
"Who the fuck is that?" Gunner pointed down the now empty hallway.
"That is Amanda Jean Ericson, also known as A.J. Come on, let's get you inside."
Gunner held up a finger and bent over placing both hands on his knees.
"Damn, she got you good, didn't she?"
“Seriously, Pops? I’m not appreciating the humor. Men do not laugh at other men who've been racked. That is an unwritten and sacred code.”
He looked up and cast a glance down the long tiled hallway when he heard something slam in the bar. "Is she one of your bartenders?" He straightened slowly and walked through the door his father held open.
Silas shut the door behind him and chuckled, "Well she does tend bar occasionally, but she's—"
The woman in question sprinted back down the hall. She slammed to a stop and slipped on water he'd either dripped on the floor or had sloshed out of her bucket. Her right foot skimmed across the tile and, with a thwack of leather against leather, connected with his ankle. Not being steady on his feet after the recent nut crushing incident, he braced against the wall to catch his balance. The ice she carried in a towel smacked him in the chest, pelting him, while dime-sized pieces of frozen water slid down the open collar of his wet shirt and collected around his waist. Fucking perfect. The woman was a walking, talking, disaster. One who in any conceivable version of the future, he would avoid like the plague.
"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry!" She reached toward him. Now that he understood the underhanded methods of his adversary, his well-honed reflexes for self-preservation kicked in, and he jerked away from her touch. Enough of this shit. There was no Zen to be found at this moment, and his renowned calm demeanor disintegrated. He stood up to his full height pulled his shirt out of his jeans, and ripped the buttons open to dislodge the ice around his waist. She covered her mouth and whispered, "I...how can I apologize?"
Gunner stood there, balls aching, drenched, and half dressed. He glared at the walking disaster and shook his head before he spoke. "Lady, stay as far away from me as humanly possible, and I’ll call it even."
She nodded, spun on her heel and walked with her back ramrod straight back down the hallway.
His dad cupped him on the shoulder nodded to his office. "Come on, I keep pub t-shirts in my office. We had a guy work for us that wore an XXL, might be tight on those guns you have, but at least it will be dry."
Gunner followed his father into his office and gingerly eased into the first chair he found. "Seriously, who is that woman?" He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor with a ripe, juicy splat. The front of his jeans were soaked, but the back was dry and shouldn't hurt the leather chair he'd settled in.
"Do you want the long answer or the short one?"
Gunner's eyes drew up at the serious tone of his father's response. His gut clenched, and he swallowed hard. "Fuck, Dad, please tell me you're not involved with her?"
There was a chuff of laughter as his dad pulled open an old metal file cabinet and rummaged through the contents. "Well, I guess that depends on your definition of involved." His old man pulled a t-shirt out of the drawer, tossed it to him and pointed to the small bathroom attached to his office. "Towels are freshly laundered in there. Go clean up. I'll pop down to the store and get you a pair of jeans. What size are you wearing nowadays?"
Gunner shook his head and carefully stood up from where he'd been sitting. "Excuse me just a minute, Dad. Is there more than one definition of involved? Honestly, I don't think I can deal with her as a stepmother."
His dad smiled that shit eating grin he got when he won an argument or knew something someone else didn't. The same one Gunner had been accused of using on too many occasions to count. "There are plenty of definitions of involved, but I'm not in a physical relationship with her if that's what you’re asking."
The things that had tightened inside Gunner released with those words. Good, at least his dad was safe from the natural disaster masquerading as a female. "It was, and thank God you’re not involved with her. She's deadly."
His dad headed to the office door "She's really not. Just intense. Now, what size?"
"Thirty-four waist. Thirty-six-inch inseam, but I can make a thirty-four inseam work if that's all they have." Hell, wear them low on his hips and tuck them in his boots so they didn't look like he'd survived a flood if need be. A smile almost broke through his current foul mood at the thought. He had survived a flood. Tropical Storm A.J. had doused him good.
His dad stopped at the door and turned around, a brilliant smile on his face. "I'm sorry about the welcoming committee, but I'm damn glad you're home, son. How long do I have you for?"
Gunner smiled and opened his arms wide. He knew he looked a mess, but he didn't care. "I'm home for good, Pops. I put in my papers. You're stuck with me."
His father's smile faltered. "Seriously? Why?"
Gunner dropped his arms. He looked his dad dead in the eye. "Why? Because it was time, Dad. I've got my twenty in. I've survived some shit I probably shouldn't have, and I want to spend time with you."
His dad just stood there. Gunner's gut sank. "That's okay, isn't it?"
His dad nodded and cleared his throat. "As long as you can promise me it wasn't because of my health. I'm doing a damn good job at managing that."
His dad stared at him, no doubt looking for anything that would lead him to believe Gunner was here out of obligation rather than want. He wouldn't find it. He’d wanted to come home. He’d wanted to spend time with his old man. Granted he would always miss his team and the family they'd become, but it was time for him to walk away.
Finally, his father's hand moved away from the door and Gunner found himself wrapped in another embrace. "I'm so glad you're home, kiddo."
Gunner laughed. "I'm forty-years-old. I stopped being a kid eons ago."
His dad stepped back and ruffled Gunner's hair. "You'll always be my kid. Now, go shower, you smell like mop water."
"Yeah? I think there might be a reason for that." Gunner tossed the comment over his shoulder. His extra-thick, double-cushioned, cotton, athletic socks, now water-sodden, squelched and flapped on the tile with every step he took—all the way to the bathroom. No false advertising here. They were super absorbent.
Chapter 4
A.J. waited until Silas left to buy some dry clothes for his son before she moved to the back hall to clean up the mop water and melting ice. She shook her head in disbelief. No wonder the man had looked at her like she was insane last night. Oh, God, she'd asked Delmont to arrest him. Why hadn't Delmont said something? Seriously, none of this would have happened if he’d just piped up and said something. A.J. sat back on her heels and looked for any errant melting pieces of ice. "No, you still would have soaked him in mop water." She spoke out loud to herself. She'd own that, but if she knew he wasn’t a psycho, she wouldn't have kicked him in his privates.
She crumpled onto her ass and wrapped her arms around her legs sitting amongst the litter of wet paper towels that surrounded her. Leave it to her to compound the errors. Her father had always said when she did something, she did it big. When she'd slipped and poured ice all over him? That was an accident. Pure and simple. Not her fault. Right?
God, talk about a klutz. She ran through the events up to the point where he'd ripped off his shirt like the Amazing Hulk. Holy hotness he had a gorgeous body. That man was some kinda good-looking. Thick dark brown hair. Beard the same color and framing sinfully sexy lips. Well, they were sexy until he scowled and demanded she stay as far away from him as humanly possible. Lord, the anger that had flashed in his dark brown eyes. Not that she blamed him. He had every right to be mad and tell her to get lost. Hell, she didn't want to be around herself at the moment.
Her mind kept flashing back to when he'd shredded his shirt and exposed his chest and abdominals. The man was ripped, like movie-star ripped. God, that bronzed expanse of skin would leave any girl's panties wet, especially his Adonis belt…those veed muscles that went lower...merciful heavens...to the place you kicked him. She put her hands to her face and groaned.
This was Gunner. The Gunner. Silas's only son. The man she heard wonderful stories about. The pictures she'd seen of him fresh out of basic with a shaved head and looking so terribly young in his Navy whites, held little to no resemblance to the massive man she'd seen last night and today. He looked nothing like Silas. Gunner was dark where Silas was fair. Gunner was taller and more muscled than his father, and his facial features did not bear any resemblance to Silas. None. How was she supposed to know? Not that it mattered now. Her pattern of behavior was all too familiar. She'd not only burned the bridge, but as her daddy would say, she’d blown up the road leading to the damn thing. Well, she was nothing if not consistent. She’d preemptively eliminated any possibility of a congenial relationship with the man. Hell, he'd asked her to stay away from him. Not sure how she was going to do that when she owned part of the Walrus. Amanda picked up the paper towels and tossed them. She passed the breakroom and stopped. The fresh pot of coffee she'd brewed beckoned to her with a wonderful aroma. She tossed her cold coffee into the sink and turned on the faucet to rinse out the cup before glancing up to the clock on the wall. August would be here in ten minutes or so, and then she and Silas could review the security tapes for the last three months. They should have downloaded by now.
But...Silas would want to spend some time with his son on his first full day back. She'd go through the tapes by herself. It wasn't as if Silas needed to review them with her. She’d just pop into his office and email the files to her computer. Problem solved, and Silas and Gunner could spend the day, or heck even a couple days, together to catch up.
With that plan firmly in hand, she poured another cup of coffee and headed to Silas's office. She tapped gently on the door and waited. Nothing. She knocked a little louder. Still no response. A.J. opened the door a crack. "Hello?" When no one responded she popped her head in the door and looked around the office. There was no one. She stepped in and listened. There was no sound coming from the bathroom. Maybe Gunner had left? That didn't make any sense. Maybe he went with Silas? Whatever. She was going to be firmly planted in her office and away from Silas's son by the time they got back. She went to the desk, woke up Silas's computer and emailed the files to herself.
As she stood up, the door to the bathroom opened. "Oh, I...ah..." Somehow, she lost the ability to talk or think. Gunner filled the bathroom doorway—wearing nothing but a wholly inadequate white towel. Holy Moly! The man was gorgeous, and if the bulge in that towel was any indication, well-endowed to boot.
And that is enough of that! "Sorry, I just needed some files. I knocked. I swear I did. Yeah…ah…just leaving now." She moved two steps toward the door and stopped with a jerk. With an apologetic mutter of, “Coffee,” she reached back and grabbed at her coffee cup but managed to contact only the lip of the cup, not the handle. She saw it happening in slow motion. The cup teetered, rocked on the edge of the desk. No, no, no, no! She scrambled to catch it before it tipped. Her hand swatted the porcelain, batting it toward Gunner. If coffee cups could fly, this cup was a damn bald eagle soaring in flight. It drifted up, tumbling as it went. A spray of coffee filled the air, all heading straight toward the bathroom door. A.J. jumped forward in some kind of superhero inspired dream of catching the damn thing before it shattered into a million pieces. She hit the floor, knocking the wind out of herself, at the same time the mug detonated and scattered a billion shards of razor-sharp remains over the office floor. A.J. lifted her head and surveyed the remnants of Coffee-agedon. Her eyes landed on the bare, coffee-soaked feet not more than six inches from her nose. Her gaze traveled to his ankles and noticed the stream of coffee that trickled down the light covering of hair on his shin. Her eyes migrated up. Why, she'd never know, because good God have mercy, everything under the towel was on full display. Her initial assessment had been accurate. Wow.
"I'd move to protect your modesty, but I'd rather not be picking glass out of my feet for the next week." His frigid voice snapped her out of her trance.
Her gaze plummeted to the ground and stayed there. She could feel her face flame. A.J. pushed up and her eyes bounced all over the room, anywhere but at him. "I'll...I'll go get the broom." She hustled toward the office door, not looking back. She scooted out and slammed the door shut. A.J. clenched her eyes closed and leaned against the door. I'm going to hell. I'm the worst person. I was checking out his package. The picture of that long, thick, uncircumcised cock, hanging over his unbruised balls—she’d looked pretty closely, they hadn’t appeared bruised—was seared into her corneas.
Silas opened the back door and paused when he saw her leaning against his office door. He raised his eyebrows in question.
A.J. shook her head. "Don't ask. Please, let me go to my office and shut my door. I'll be there all
night watching the security video. Tell your son I promise I won’t come out. Just, please take him out for dinner or something, I got this." She took two steps and stopped. "Oh, you'll need to take a broom and dustpan with you when you go into your office." She didn't wait for a response, just hightailed it to her office like rabid dogs were on her heels.
Gunner pushed away his plate and leaned back in the dark red leather booth at the local steakhouse. It was a local haunt and off of the beaten path. Most of the tourists that flocked to the area didn't know about it. Several times during dinner people had interrupted them, stopping to say hello, welcome him home or just spend a few minutes visiting.
"So, no more pussyfooting around the subject. Tell me about Hurricane A.J." Gunner finished the last of his water.
His father nodded. "Fair enough. This will probably require alcohol." He lifted a finger and ordered them both a double shot of single malt. "After the stroke, the Walrus was too much for me. I didn't want to tell you that, knew it would cause you to worry."
"That's why you didn't tell me you'd hired someone until after you'd done it."
His dad leveled a stare at him. "In my defense, you were deployed at the time."
Which was true, but the Red Cross had gotten word to the forward operating base which got word to his team. It took almost three weeks, but Gunner had called home as soon as he could. "I know. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to help." That fact ate at Gunner's gut like slow dripping acid.
"Meh, I handled it. I think maybe the fact that there was no one here forced me to get better faster. I placed an advertisement for a bar manager. I interviewed five people. One a day, because anything more than that was too much for me, but I pushed through. At the end of the week, only one candidate meshed with me and, in my opinion, actually knew what the hell they were doing."